


Burn Bag

by flyingisland



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Izuo - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 06:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6970456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heiwajima Shizuo is more of a weapon than a soldier, but Sergent Major Orihara Izaya has never been too afraid of danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn Bag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadisticsolipsist (shanghaigirl2010)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanghaigirl2010/gifts).



Heiwajima Shizuo, twenty-three, 185 cm, 70kg, born of modest beginnings, attended average schools. He’d gotten himself into some trouble, wandered down a dangerous path in his youth. Maybe he was in a gang, maybe he was a criminal in training. He might have almost killed a man, beaten him so bloody that his face would never look the same ever again, he isn’t sure.

All he knows is what’s written on the file in front of him.

Heiwajima Shizuo. Parents, still living. One younger brother. Grandparents, deceased. No other known relatives.

By word of mouth, he’s learned that Heiwajima was recruited by an officer in his hometown. Such things might not be particularly unusual, except that Heiwajima seemed to be no regular scrappy kid, not the normal troublemaker who might find himself rotting away in prison someday, and while he doesn’t know what the guy could have possibly done to garner such positive attention from the military, well, he’s determined to find out.

Sergeant Major Orihara leans back in his chair, drawing bleary eyes to the ceiling and tracing patterns in the darkness. Light filters in through the gaps in the blinds, casting white lines across the surface of his desk and the file lying open in front of him. A stripe draws over Heiwajima’s face, illuminating that milky skin against brown hair and the scowl that is somehow ever-present, even as he’s speaking to commanding officers and going about his morning chores.

 _‘Resting Bitch Face’_ , another officer had joked. Orihara had stifled a laugh, watched as Heiwajima stopped to salute a higher ranking officer. He’d gotten in a lot of trouble upon his arrival for that face. It translated as disrespect among the ranks, made him seem cocky in the face of his superiors. But the days dragged on and he took his many punishments in stride. That scowl never left his face, and one day, someone finally asked him, _“What’s with the bad attitude?”_

He’d cocked his head, or so Orihara had heard, and replied, _“What attitude?”_

And maybe someone had finally seen the _real_ attitude, from what Orihara had heard. Heiwajima had gotten mixed up in a disagreement between two peers. He’d taken a fist to the face.

In the wake of his destruction, many soldiers had expected for him to be discharged, but their superior officer had stumbled upon the scene, taken in the wreckage, and after a long, torturous moment—

He’d smiled.

“That’s why we enlisted him in the first place,” Sergeant Kishitani had explained, a strange grin stretching over his lips as he spoke of the unusual person that Heiwajima apparently was, “He’s not so much of soldier, really. That’s not why the military has taken such an interest in him.”

They’d walked by living quarters, watching the construction team as they’d fixed multiple human-shaped holes in the walls. Izaya wasn’t entirely convinced that a single person could possess such strength. It would be a long time before he witnessed the full brunt of it himself, and even then, he would doubt the prospect of Heiwajima being anything similar to _human_.

“You see,” Kishitani continued, pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sending the most cliché of glints across the surface of them, “Heiwajima isn’t a soldier at all.”

They’d paused to toe a long crater in the ground. Nearly a hundred meters away, Izaya spotted the culprit—a bunkbed rooted at the end of the hole, sticking up like a dying tree from the dirt with iron bars misshapen and glistening in the sun.

“Heiwajima is a weapon.”

This mysterious man—dark haired, dark eyed, classically handsome and somber even on the brightest of days—he haunted Orihara’s thoughts for weeks. The weeks carried on into months, into days and days of watching Heiwajima in the cafeteria, sitting in during drill meetings and keeping an eye on his growth. Their eyes would meet over the heads of soldiers, and instead of saluting, of nodding in respect or even holding his fiery gaze to Orihara’s like the wild animal that he seemed to be, he always looked away.

His eyes flickered with something unnameable. His brow furrowed, shoulders stiffened. And even when Orihara greeted him in the hall one morning so much time later, he’d stayed silent for an entire minute before raising a mechanical hand to his head and gritting out a greeting.

Orihara almost reprimanded him, almost cited him for disrespecting a superior office, but the words were too jumbled in his throat. Nothing came out but a huff of a laugh, and even the smirk that he’d plastered on his face was jagged and wrong. He was the first one to walk away, leaving Heiwajima behind, watching his back.

But that was nearly a month ago. He sits now in his office, hiding away under the guise of doing paperwork, as he thumbs through Heiwajima Shizuo’s files and wonders what sort of monster is hiding away right here on base.

There are photos from a small town that he doesn’t recognize: school pictures, Heiwajima with his parents and another young boy, of damages to buildings and signposts that seem as though a hurricane might have ripped through the streets.

But he knows better, of course. If he looks close enough, he can see the imprints of fingers in the signs, the handprints in the brick. A shudder inches up his spine, and when someone knocks on his door, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Come in,” he calls a little shakier than he prefers, closing the file hastily and shoving it beneath another pile of paper.

It’s Sergeant Kishitani, of course, surely here to harass him about something nondescript that should probably be reserved for personal time.

“What is it?” he questions before Kishitani can even speak, “Is this important? I’m busy.”

The Sergeant—or Shinra, really. They’ve been friends since middle school, even entered the military together—bellows a laugh. He has no respect for Orihara even out in the open. Which was fine and dandy when they were of the same rank, but as Izaya climbed the ladder, Shinra stayed in place. He lurched slowly upward, a little too lazy and spacy to maybe ever reach the top. Izaya wonders when they’ll be forced to cut ties, when the gap will grow too wide between them for a friendship to remain appropriate.

It will come someday, he’s sure. He refuses to consider that he might feel anything when it happens.

“I thought you’d want to know that Heiwajima moved up again,” he says, finally calming down and working his way toward Izaya’s desk, “Since you’ve become so obsessed with him.”

With each passing day, it seems that Heiwajima moves further and further up the ranks. Orihara tries to remember where this leaves him now, which rank he might currently hold, and how long it might take for them to stand on equal footing.

In a short moment of self-doubt, he wonders when Heiwajima will surpass him.

“It’s Master Sergeant Heiwajima now,” Shina replies to the question that he knows Orihara will never lower himself to ask, “I had to salute him in the hall today. Pretty surreal situation considering that we both watched him the day he got here, isn’t it?”

Izaya doesn’t speak. He laces his fingers under his chin and allows his thoughts to wander. Heiwajima is a rank below him now, more than likely winning the favor of their superior officers as he and Shinra sit here together in his office. It should be intimidating, and he should be doing something to stop this. Orihara Izaya does not tolerate competition, especially from small town trash who never learned how to respect his superiors, who might only be in the military because of a dangerous, inhuman strength, and while Izaya wants nothing more than to frame him or smother his spirit, something writhes miserably in his gut at the mere thought of it.

Just this morning, in the cafeteria, he’d risen from his seat to return his utensils to the kitchen staff. Like many times before, two tall men towering over the heads of many others, he’d met eyes with Heiwajima over the crowd.

And instead of turning away, instead of scowling or forcing a stiff salute, Heiwajima had nodded.

A simple greeting, something suspicious tugging at the corners of his lips.

Then he was gone.

It was troubling at best, and might have been what prompted Izaya to pull his file in the first place—while he’s still low enough rank for it to be available, before he rises so high that no one can touch him at all.

Izaya dismisses Shinra. He leans far back in his chair, so far that the front wheels lift from the floor and for a moment, he thinks he might fall.

And he wants to laugh, he wants to howl at the absolute madness of this situation, but he can’t. The noises lodge deep in his throat, his thoughts swim in his head like a thousand unruly fish.

He thinks of Heiwajima. What it might have looked like if he had smiled, like he wanted to. Like he was hiding with that nod.

Izaya wonders what that means. He hates not knowing things.

He returns the file discreetly to the office.   


* * *

  
Sergeant Major Heiwajima strolls down the hall, stopping only to nod at a few saluting soldiers along the way. It’s early in the afternoon, heat moist in the air as insects hum somewhere just close enough to the windows to hear.

His uniform feels heavy against his skin, fabric rubbing against sweat as he makes his way toward an unfamiliar office. He’s been waiting for this moment for a long time—almost a year, since he first stepped foot on base and locked eyes with what he now thinks might be a demon hiding away in human skin.

Orihara Izaya, Sergeant Major, twenty-four years old. Slim build. Smug face. Smooth, translucent skin.

Shizuo has watched him since that first day. He’s avoided him in the halls. He’s dragged himself away each morning before the sun rises and trudged back to his room long after he sets. Orihara is a dream tiptoeing far above his fingertips.

And Shizuo has built a ladder over time, climbed further and further up, and now, on equal footing, he feels that he’s finally ready to approach him.

What he’ll do when they meet face to face, he isn’t sure. He hasn’t gotten that far yet.

He rounds the corner, shoes squeaking against the tile of the floor as he spots Orihara’s door at the end of the hall. His heart thrums in his chest, a thousand tiny tremors skittering along his skin as he attempts to put together some sort of greeting that will excuse his sudden need to barge in and interrupt whatever the sneaky bastard is up to.

He’s heard the rumors, looked across the cafeteria and the courtyard at those dark eyes dancing from face to face. Orihara always seems to be up to something. Soldiers who climb the ranks too fast are taken out quickly and quietly, under the table by suspicious means and no one speaks too much about it. There’s a pecking order here, and Orihara stands somewhere near the top, picking off the men he deems too weak to move further up.

For whatever reason, he’s left Shizuo alone, and he wants to know why.

The doorknob turns easily. The door flies open. Orihara drags lazy eyes from the paperwork on his desk, a smirk crawling out over his lips as he registers just who is waiting for him in the doorway.

“If it isn’t the new Sergeant Major,” he greets, hostile, maybe, and oh-so sarcastic, his casual tone bubbling rage deep down in Shizuo’s chest, “Are you here to flex your muscles? To intimidate me, perhaps?”

Shizuo slams the door, scales the room in three long strides. His fists shake at his sides, lips pulled back over bared teeth as he comes to a stop across the desk. And Izaya stands slowly, fearless and cocky, stepping around it and dragging a hand over the surface. His eyes never leave Shizuo’s. They watch each other, two predators fighting a silent battle for dominance, before Izaya lets out a small laugh.

“You’re not here to bully me, are you?”

In the blink of an eye, they’re all hands and mouths, uniforms rubbing together, sweat and need and long, labored breaths. He’s pinning Izaya to the desk and Izaya is biting at his bottom him. His heart drums endlessly against his ribcage. His veins ignite with molten want.

“Y-you climbed the ranks for me,” Izaya shudders, pulling away and playing with the buttons of Shizuo’s shirt, “You thought if we were equals, this would be okay?”

Shizuo’s gaze doesn’t falter. He allows himself to be undressed, painfully aware of the unlocked door across the room. Izaya is working blessedly cold hands against his exposed chest, along the scars there, the imperfections hidden so well beneath his uniform.

Izaya doesn’t mention it and neither does Shizuo. They pretend that those old wounds aren’t there at all.

“You do understand,” Izaya hums, leaning forward to draw soft lips against his collarbone, “This is Japan. Even if we’re equals now, this whole _homosexual_ thing isn’t going to fly with the higher-ups.”

And it’s Shizuo’s turn to laugh. He allows himself to be dragged over, to replace Izaya against the desk as greedy fingers work the fly of his pants. His shirt pools on the floor. He tries to ignore the wrinkles that he knows he’ll have to iron out later.

“Like I give a shit about that,” he forces his voice to stay even, watches as Izaya tugs down his pants and eyes the outline of his erection in his underwear, “Some of the other guys said that you don’t talk to low-ranking officers.”

He leaves that hanging as though it explains everything, as though it’s not the most embarrassing thing in the world. He’s been working this entire time for the attention of this man—this insufferable man who smirks too much, like he knows everything about everyone, like maybe he’s untouchable. Shizuo dreams of him in the dead of the night, cleans cum stains from his underwear in the bathroom before anyone else is awake.

He’s built a routine around his obsession with Orihara Izaya, worked himself to exhaustion nearly every day in pursuit of the dream of someday meeting up with him as an equal, for this very reason. To sleep with him. To touch him and be touched by him. There was never any question about whether or not Orihara would accept him, he could tell from those looks alone, from that familiar face at each ceremony celebrating his rise in the ranks. He’s felt those eyes following him for nearly a year now, beckoning him forward, challenging him to do better and someday be worthy of tasting that stupid, horrible smile.

Izaya tugs his erection from his pants, smiles up at him like a demon in the night, toothy and eager, sinister and needy. A succubus, maybe, convincing him to do great things for the very worst reasons.

“Heiwajima,” Orihara croons, minus the honorific or title, and somehow Shizuo doesn’t have the will to even care, “sit on my desk.”

Shizuo does as he’s told, for whatever reason.

He’s naked in Orihara’s office, erection swollen and pink-headed in the low light as Izaya makes his way over to the door and turns the lock.

Shizuo feels no shame as he sprawls out over the surface of the desk, jostling paperwork and cups filled with pens, random knickknacks and an assortment of clutter that he thinks might not be up to code. One leg dangles out toward the floor as the other rests against the edge. He’s grasping at the corners, trying to keep himself steady as Izaya draws nearer, sharp eyes alight with something predatory and hungry, jagged-toothed and mirthful as though he’s a coyote opening its jaws around the bared throat of a lamb.

“Spread your legs,” he commands, extending his arms and dragging his fingers along the back of Shizuo’s thighs, “Let me look at you.”

Shizuo obliges, color heating his cheeks. He finally can’t handle the pressure, looks away in embarrassment. Izaya is kissing his knees. He’s pressing Shizuo’s legs apart, trailing lips along his thighs. His mouth finds Shizuo’s cock, and he kisses it as well. He flicks his gaze to Shizuo’s face, grin stretching impossibly wide across his cheeks.

“Don’t look away,” he soothes, thumbs digging into Shizuo’s backside against the desk, breath hot against his abdomen, “I want you to watch.”

He’s sliding Shizuo’s erection between his lips, drawing him into the back of his throat. Shizuo complies, forcing himself to watch as Izaya’s pulls his head back, only to bob again and again, tongue sliding hot and wet along the shaft as his cheeks hollow and a free hand comes to work the shaft with each movement.

He’s twitching helplessly, fists white against the edges of the desk as he tries his best to ignore the sounds of it cracking in his grip. Izaya either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. Maybe he’ll consider it a trophy, his proverbial victory over a new rival.

He sucks at the head, grip tightening around the length of it. Shizuo bites back a groan, flinches and huffs. His ears burn, his skin tingles.

Izaya pulls away, cock resting against his cheek. His hand doesn’t still its strokes. Shizuo watches him, transfixed.

“Heiwajima,” he breathes, words vibrating against Shizuo, eyes hooded and nearly black, “Top drawer, under the blue folder. There’s a bottle. Grab it for me?”

He leans awkwardly across the desk, jerking a little as Izaya’s thumb slides against his urethra. Pausing, he sends the bastard a glare to which he only receives and innocent smile. After much fumbling, he finds what he's looking for, reminding himself to ponder why there’s a used bottle of lube in Orihara’s desk in the first place, but for now, there’s no time to waste thinking about it.

He pushes it into Izaya’s grasp, re-situating himself and drawing in a shuddering breath as he prepares himself for what’s to come. This is what he wanted, he tells himself. This is why he came here.

Izaya wastes no time, uncaps the lube and dribbles some over his fingers. He’s rubbing against Shizuo, pushing inside—one finger, three thrusts, two fingers, too quick—stretching him out and teasing his erection with swollen lips the tip of his tongue.

He’s decided that Shizuo is ready a little too soon, but Shizuo doesn’t mention it. His pain tolerance is high enough anyway, and he’s a little impatient himself. Izaya stands then, grasping him by the knees and pulling him forward. He’s hanging from the desk, ass out in the air and legs wrapped around Izaya waist.

They look at each other for a single moment, an intake of breath, a single thought shared between the two of them— _‘Why am I doing this?’_ —before Izaya pushes inside in one quick thrust and Shizuo masks a grunt, bites his lip, arches his back.

He’s bracing himself against the desk, eyes never closing completely, never looking away. Izaya’s smile crumbles. He’s concentrating, holding back his own little noises. He’s hitting a spot inside of Shizuo that has him seeing stars.

They’re breathing, writhing, they’re moving together.

Izaya is shaking, he reaches for Shizuo’s erection, commands him, suddenly, “Say my name, H-Heiwajima. Call me… Call me Izaya.”

And Shizuo does. He’s gasping it out, cumming hard and fast and sputtering the name through curses and little cries.

Izaya cums soon after. He’s burying his face in Shizuo’s shoulder.

The world slowly slips back into focus. Time drips by, the sounds outside of the door become clearer as the haze of his orgasm fades away.

Izaya pulls back, cleans the cum from his stomach.

And he looks down to Shizuo, chuckles darkly, and reaches forward for his uniform.

“Keep that up, Heiwajima, and you’ll reach the top in no time.”

Shizuo scowls. He fights back the urge to throw him through the window.

He’ll keep working, keep trying.

And someday, he swears, he’ll climb all the way to the top.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, okay, this took a lot longer than expected. I am so sorry.
> 
> But it turns out that you really can get a fic for just about anything, really. Sadisticsolipsist was kind enough to refer me to an online Cards Against Humanity site, and so. Uh, here's this. Thanks so much! 
> 
> I'm not familiar with military AUs at all and I've never written anything like this before. It was interesting, honestly, and I think I might have gotten a little carried away with the plot. I'm so sorry about that.
> 
> I hope you like it anyway!


End file.
